


Fantastic titles, where can I find them

by gudetama (elementary)



Series: Prompt stuff [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alpha Newt, Alpha Newt Scamander, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Character Death, Daddy Kink, Dark Newt Scamander, Enemies to Friends, Fluff, Getting Together, Handcuffed Together, Height Differences, Height Kink, Implied Mpreg, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, Kissing, M/M, Minor Violence, Mpreg, Nesting, Omega Original Percival Graves, Pining, Recovery, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 04:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 20,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14867064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementary/pseuds/gudetama
Summary: A mess of (mainly Gramander) (very rough) drabbles and ficlets inspired by various things from the internetz. Tags will be added as I post them.





	1. the grumpy nester (omega!Percival, mpreg)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Omega!Graves's alpha is amused at grumpy!Graves, curled up in a nest of blankets, coats, (and animal fur and feathers- if its Newt) who just does not want to get up for the day . [Bonus if it is also in part because of not yet recognized pregnancy symptoms].

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: (Implied) Mpreg

Percival swears someone cursed the time to slow when he looks at the clock for the third time and sees that only a minute has passed. Today has been particularly draining for him even though his workload is no different compared to any other day. Though frustrated, he tried to hold it in but the way his aurors started treading delicately around him after lunch, he doesn’t think he was very successful.

So in light of that, it comes as no surprise to him when his receptionist knocks on the door at five o’clock sharp and demands that he head home for the day. For a beta she can be rather intimidating when she wants to be and his own gruff response hardly makes her blink, only makes her hurry him out of the office. While grateful for the break, the relief is short-lived when he remembers that he’s returning to an empty house, his mate out of the country for the month. It usually doesn’t bother him when it happens as they’ve discussed the matter already multiple times and Percival reassured the man he was perfectly fine with it.

And he is, truly. Honestly.

Just... not at the moment.

The first thing he does when he gets home is go searching for his alpha’s belongings—mainly clothing—and the first whiff of the lingering scent settles some of the discomfort within him. In no time he has several things gathered and piled on their shared bed and it takes great willpower to resist burrowing himself into it. He still needs to change his own clothes and have some dinner first because otherwise he knows he won’t get up from it until the next morning. But as soon as he does those things Percival does _not_  pounce onto the bed and falls asleep surrounded by Newt’s smell.

He wakes refreshed and ready to conquer the day.

The day passes as usual, full of reports that need revisions and meetings and apprehending of small crooks. One of them tried to beg for mercy, appealing to one of the new auror’s soft-heartedness and caught the poor kid off guard with a jinx. She’ll be embarrassed for the next week or so but physically alright.

That night, he sleeps peacefully as if Newt were next to him.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t last very long. With each day his own scent starts to cover more and more of his alpha-substitutes and it takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize that it’s due to having used every available item that remotely carried Newt’s scent. It usually never took much to get him through the waiting period, using the alpha’s pillow being enough to stave the loneliness on some nights. But for some reason, this time, he needed everything he could find to concentrate and amplify the comfort it brought.

And Newt isn’t back yet.

Percival won’t admit it but it’s quite upsetting even though he doesn’t show it.

He doesn’t show it so he doesn’t think much of it when Jacob decides to visit one evening the week after with freshly baked goods despite business hours being over and sit with him while sharing coffee and pastries. The man is simply being a good friend who hasn’t visited in a while.

Same with Tina, his subordinate who became a close friend over the years. Tina who discreetly doesn’t mention a thing about Percival in Newt’s shirt as they converse about work mostly in his dining room which keeps him distracted from the staleness of the clothing. But then Queenie drops by another evening with her homemade hot chocolate and when she makes him drink it while smiling indulgently, he wonders if he wasn’t very successful at not showing.

“I just missed you, sweetie,” Queenie says as if she read his mind despite his occlumency still functioning fine.

He peers doubtfully over the rim of his mug but mutters a 'thank you' anyway. The hot chocolate is very good.

Between friends and work, it’s almost enough for him to take his mind off of the fact that Newt’s scent is nearly gone from their bed and that it’s getting harder to leave the house each morning.

When Newt comes bursting through the office doors first thing upon his return, Percival pretends his heart doesn’t quiver with relief at the sight of the alpha. He pretends that he never felt shamefully weak in the dark of many nights, wanting his mate home as his smell faded. Still, he leans in as Newt tilts his head up with a hand on Percival's jaw, cupping it gently as a generous mouth kisses and tastes him. Newt slips fingers under the collar and strokes the flesh of his throat, then breaking the kiss, he scents Percival. It’s then that Percival allows himself to inhale deeply, slowly, taking greedy pulls of the alpha fresh from the source.

“How was your trip?” he asks calmly, feeling deft fingers loosen his tie and shirt.

Newt hums, pleased, against his bared throat. “Good.”

“Okay,” Percival says, his own hand sliding into soft curls as he buries his nose in Newt’s hair. Then after a pause, “Welcome home.”

 

 

At first Newt thinks nothing of it. His clothes have a tendency to gain Percival's scent while he's away and so even though the closet smelled mixed, it was nothing out of the ordinary. And that night after dinner and getting ready for sleep, Percival wraps around him from behind as they lie together in bed, again not unusual because they’ve missed each other.

Thankfully it's the weekend so they spend a lazy morning making love, and Newt happily sets his teeth against the mark on Percival’s nape to hear the omega moan and feel him tighten around his knot; they fall back asleep sated and tied. Following that they share a late meal inside the suitcase after feeding the creatures who missed Percival, and Newt watches with a warmed heart as they reacquaint themselves with him.

Sunday passes much the same way and then it's back to work. Which they’re late for because Percival tempts him back to bed for a few more minutes and well, Newt doesn’t blame him; the weekend felt short for him, too.

But he notices something a week later: an extra blanket in their bed, to be specific. The blanket—the one from Newt’s shed _when did he—?_ —isn’t strange per se, except it’s the middle of summer and Percival is a little—visibly—annoyed by the heat. Yet it’s there like a third bedmate on Percival’s other side when they sleep. Perhaps his mate caught a virus or a curse, though he seems fine the rest of the time. A diagnostic spell thankfully reveals nothing, only earns him a suspicious look from Percival that Newt kisses away.

It’s not the first blanket, nor is it the only item. About the third shirt and one of his scarves going missing and also waking up on the edge of the bed because he was pushed, Newt’s concerned. He’s concerned, but...

 _Merlin_ , he thinks as he stands over his mate by the bed, _he’s adorable_. Percival is quite comfortably half-buried beneath a pile of fabric and—Newt raises a brow at the occamy feathers and other hairs stuck to some of the blankets—remains fast asleep despite the heat. It’s almost a shame Newt has to wake him up so they can go to work, and he feels a bit guilty when the omega grumbles his refusal to get up.

“I think you should see the healer, love,” Newt tries to coax him, pressing soft kisses to his sleep-warm face. “You’ve not been yourself lately.”

“I’m fine, Newt,” Percival mumbles, eyes still closed.

The face that Percival makes is more a pout than a frown and Newt is drawn to kiss that, too.

“We can stop by Jacob’s, grab a little something and a cup of coffee, hm?” Newt says with a smile.

There’s brief contemplation and then Percival nods, sighing as he rises, but before he heads to the bathroom his eyes narrow at the little nest he just left. Longing and confusion wars on his mate’s face from what Newt can see and it squeezes his chest with worry.

As promised, Newt buys him breakfast pastries on their way to the Woolworth building—Jacob being especially nice today, adding a couple extra goodies to their purchase—and the first thing he does upon arriving is make an appointment with a healer. Healer Eleanor is able to see them just after noon and Newt stands anxiously by his mate as she runs diagnostic spells over him while asking some questions.

“Oh,” she gasps.

“What is it?” Percival asks impassively though he tenses a little.

Healer Eleanor congratulates them suddenly, her smile bright. “You’re expecting, Director.”


	2. monster (omega!Percival, dark!Newt, torture)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: rare!omega world. to hurt an omega is anathema to even dark wizards. Dark!Newt battling GW on Graves' behalf, who doesnt say a word (maybe a symptom of another injury or spell), Grave's silent tears drip (with which Graves is annoyed that the 'dust' just wont settle) and snarls of frustrated helplessness due to crippled ankles/hamstrings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: minor violence, character death, implied torture, Grindelwald committing a heinous crime as per the AU's rule, slightly dark!Newt

The moment Percival sees realization cross Grindelwald’s pale, pale face, a vicious sort of satisfaction fills him. At the same time, anxiety twists in his stomach. He experienced first-hand what this man is capable of for the sake of his goals and it’s difficult to say whether this will even make a difference or not, if his situation has possibly taken a turn for the worse instead of the better. Because with the truth of him being an omega out—no more suppressants, broken charms from depleted magic—he feels more vulnerable than ever, still chained to the wall in a cold, stone room (how is that for typical) carved out somewhere in his own home.

Grindelwald’s expression twists into something complicated then smooths out into indifference, but from this proximity Percival still sees the tension around his mouth.

“Why didn’t you say anything, Director?” he says, voice deceptively light.

“What difference would it have made?” Percival retorts.

“Contrary to your belief, even I’m not that barbaric,” the man says as he steps closer but stops at Percival’s snarl.

“Then you’re the same as everyone else,” Percival sneers and relishes at the unhappy twitch of the man’s eyes.

It’s idiotic, he knows, to provoke Grindelwald anymore at this point—he’s hurt and immobile and naked. But he’s angry: angry at Grindelwald for implying that he would have been saved from hours, days of suffering if only the other had known, angry at himself for the relief at his kidnapper finally knowing and stirring a traitorous hope that the pain might stop. What angers him most is that there is a second of regret at not having revealed himself earlier to prevent this prolonged torture. It’s weakness and everything he fought against, to not be treated differently and be a Graves on his own merits.

“And what would you have done,” Percival continues, “pamper and spoil information out of me?”

A hand snaps forward and grips his throat tight. “That’s _enough_.”

Fingers dig in like a vice and Percival can’t breathe for a moment; he panics, eyes widening as they meet Grindelwald’s in sudden fear of the threat. But the choking hold releases quickly before he can process how to stop it and the hand switches to light, almost apologetic strokes down the column of his neck. It’s as if to soothe and Percival turns away from the man, coughing dry, shrinking in on himself to avoid the touch. Tucking in his chin, Percival bites his lip against a pathetic noise wanting to escape and takes slow, deep breaths.

“I will get you some water,” Grindelwald sighs and leaves without another word or look.

The door closes and Percival sags against the chains holding him up, tries to shift as much as he can to relieve the numbness in his hips from sitting too long. There isn’t much he can do, however, with legs that have no strength and can’t find purchase on the ground.

Grindelwald doesn’t come back with any water; in fact, he doesn’t return at all and Percival is too exhausted to care that it’s slightly disappointing. Time passes meaninglessly like it has been for a while and he wants to be unconscious, away from everything that hurts. Just when he’s about to, in true villainous fashion, Grindelwald barges through the door and startles him. The man appears unusually disturbed.

“We need to leave,” Grindelwald informs him as he approaches.

The words shock Percival further awake and he shakes his head weakly, protests caught in his throat as he presses back into the wall. Staying here is Percival’s last hope because surely someone will come looking through his place for him; there is no telling where Grindelwald will take them if they leave. Shackles disappear from his wrists with a flick of a hand and Percival can’t help but cry out when his arms drop like dead weights, blood rushing back into them and stiff muscles aching fiercely from sudden movement. Grindelwald hushes him as he kneels and lays a coat— _Percival’s coat_ —over his body. Percival’s protests fall on deaf ears so he prepares to fight the wizard off the best he can when a crash distracts him.

Grindelwald curses and puts him down again. Someone... someone else is here, Percival realizes as his heartbeat quickens. A silhouette comes into the open doorway and Percival thinks he’s finally gone mad from all the torture because that’s a four-legged beast the size of a large predator and how did such a thing get in here—

And then it’s a bit of a blur after that because Grindelwald steps in front of him and there are flashes of light too bright for his sensitive eyes, loud bangs and crashes that cause him to flinch. They make Percival curl up and pull the coat tighter around himself as whimpers spill out unbidden. He doesn’t know how long it lasts, only that it goes silent abruptly and then there’s someone next to him who isn’t Grindelwald.

“Mr. Graves,” a soft, accented voice calls. “Mr. Graves, my name is Newt Scamander. You’re safe now; he’s gone.”

A stranger; a possible threat. But he’s the first thing Percival smells that isn’t Grindelwald or his own blood and uncleanliness. It’s something wild and fresh, alpha, and Percival swallows with difficulty, unable to move from his hunched position. He himself must be reeking of wariness and pain but surprisingly, the man doesn’t try anything yet.

“May I help you?” he asks instead. “It’s best to get you to the healers as soon as possible. The aurors will be here soon but I’d rather not wait.”

The mention of aurors shouldn’t bring his guard down; this man could very well be lying. But Percival’s at his limits—beyond them, even—physically and mentally, and he won’t be conscious for much longer.

Percival licks his lips to wet them and his reply is hardly more than a rasp. “Please. I can’t move, my legs can’t—”

The stranger lets out a noise like he’s upset and curses—‘monster’, Percival hears—but he’s nodding when Percival finally turns towards him. It’s hard to see anything in the dark room, only vague outlines; so he can only trust the absence of maliciousness in the alpha’s scent and his deliberate, gentle movements that stop whenever it hurts too much for Percival. Newt lifts and cradles him against a solid warmth, and Percival doesn’t realize he started to cry until the man murmurs soothing nonsense and wipes under his eyes. Then, some kind of spell washes over him that mutes his senses and that’s the last thing he remembers.

 

 

Newt wrinkles his nose at the smell of death. Perhaps the poison was overkill but he doesn’t control what his beasts choose to do. And to be honest, the wizard deserved it. To think that Grindelwald would stoop so low...

It was quite the shock earlier when Newt stepped through broken wards within Director Graves’ home and into a hidden room reeking of an omega. A _hurt_  omega, nonetheless, who turned out to be the very man they had been searching for.

Needless to say he was furious beyond reason, personally and on behalf of any sane person who knows better.

And now, the wizard will never be a threat to any omega ever again thanks to the nundu safely back in Newt’s case.

As for Mr. Graves, the poor man shivers in Newt’s arms, his mind likely still in captivity. Resisting the urge to tighten his hold lest he hurt the omega further, Newt turns his back on the pile of decaying flesh and walks out.


	3. [inspired by art] Coming home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this gorgeous art](http://sssilkworms.tumblr.com/post/168106231678/saw-this-nifty-al-parker-illo-on-twitter-and-my) basically I love sssilkworms

The lights are dim when Newt enters the house, stepping in quietly and closing the door behind him. It’s surprising because the evening is still young and Percival is usually awake at this time. There’s a familiar magic signature that greets him, so he’s definitely here and not pulling overtime at work as he tends to do.

Huey wriggles out of Newt’s coat, landing on the floor with a thud from the weight of his most recent heist, the greedy, incorrigible thing. Newt shushes him in case Percival shouldn’t be disturbed, but it’s useless as the niffler sets off down the corridor and around the corner towards the living room.

“Huey!” Newt not quite whispers, chasing after him with his wand in hand.

He nearly skids to a stop just inside the doorway in time to stop Huey from climbing over the back of the sofa where a familiar back of the head rises over it. He hears the rustling of papers—today’s news, he notices upon closer look—and wonders why Percival hasn’t turned to greet him yet. Then the sound of quiet snuffling reaches his ears and the head bobs slightly, followed by a light snore.

Oh dear, Newt thinks, heart expanding in his chest as it fills with helpless affection. In his momentary distraction, the freed niffler jumps over—

“Hue—!” and Newt grimaces at the startled yelp and paper being scrunched between fists.

“Huey?” Percival says groggily. “Merlin’s beard, I could have shot you—” Then, “Oh, is…”

And Newt is right behind him in two long strides. “I’m here, love.”

Percival cranes his head back, blinks in surprise as he takes in Newt’s face upside down. Newt sets the suitcase on the floor to free his hands so that they can hold the face he has missed dearly. It’s soft and smooth, as expected of a man who is meticulous with his grooming. His husband sighs and relaxes into the touch, hums when Newt leans down to kiss that pretty mouth.

One of Newt’s hands slide over to gently cup Percival’s jaw to tilt it back just a little bit more, guides their lips together in a loving caress, nibbles on the pair below his. Oh, he definitely missed this. With one final nip at the chin, Newt draws back and nuzzles into Percival’s shoulder, feels a hand atop his head and a kiss to the ear.

“Welcome back,” Percival says, voice warm and loving.

Newt straightens a little, but continues to cradle Percival with an arm across his chest, fingers splayed on the side of his neck in a light grip and chin resting atop the man’s head. “What does the news say?”

The poor papers are ripped since Percival had accidentally gripped too hard from being startled earlier and severely crumpled where Huey sits on them in Percival’s lap.

“Well,” and Percival draws out the syllable, “you didn’t make it to the front page this time, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Newt makes a disapproving noise. “Is that what you say to your husband after a month? You wound me.”

He pretends to choke the man for punishment, but it ends with both of them giggling and trading more kisses.

“This is rather uncomfortable,” Percival points out, twisted awkwardly because of Newt standing behind him. “Why don’t you join Huey on my lap instead?”

“That’s quite the bold invitation,” Newt teases, but does as suggested after pressing one last kiss to the forehead.

It’s good to be home.


	4. In which Newt calls himself 'daddy'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://accio-shitpost.tumblr.com/post/157177123146/fantastic-beasts-au-where-everything-is-the-same) which certainly changes some things

It makes Tina stiffen for some reason, the words ringing odd in her ears. Perhaps she misheard it, but a look at Queenie who happens to turn to her at the same time confirms that it isn’t just her. Queenie’s eyes are wide as she gives a little shrug and a bemused smile. She turns back to the man in question who is now bottle-feeding(!) a tentacled, glowing animal.

“Mr. Scamander,” Tina calls, catching his attention, “you, hm, consider yourself a... father? To these creatures?”

“Mostly to the young, yes. They are children, technically,” he answers, then starts to hum a tune like a lullaby as he rocks the thing.

Unconventional, just as the rest of the man seems to be, but Tina can appreciate the care he has for those under his protection. The way he handles these creatures indicates quite obviously how genuine he is and whoever will have him as a husband and father will surely be fortunate.

And never in her life would she have predicted that someone like Newt Scamander would attract someone like her boss, but after getting over the initial awkwardness and novelty of seeing the two as a romantic pairing, she finds them rather cute together. Newt is affectionate in his own strange, a bit too straightforward way while Mr. Graves softens a touch around the other man and is subtly sweet on him.

Today’s the day Newt comes back from yet another trip and Tina and her co-workers are looking forward to it because while they did miss him, it was harder to deal with their boss who had been a tad forlorn in Newt’s absence, covering it with heavy workloads and barked orders.

They’re one of the first to greet Newt at the entrance of the department and they keep their welcome backs and exchanges brief so they can send him along to the director. After Newt walks off in that direction, Tina belatedly remembers that she has something to give him, picked up while on a random shopping trip with her sister the other day that reminded her of the man. She figures she’ll hand it over now before she forgets again.

Tina’s a few paces behind when she finds Newt just entering the office, about to call out—

“Daddy’s here, Percival.”

—and stops dead in her tracks at Newt’s purred greeting.

Mercy Lewis, what did she just hear?

The word itself isn’t unfamiliar, having heard it many times before when she would sometimes help Newt with the rounds, but the context is... oh, Morgana have mercy. Tina stays frozen, horrified and face aflame, infinitely grateful that he didn’t notice her and the door closes soon after. She takes a breath, then a second, and makes a run for it back the way she came.

She’ll never be able to hear that word from Newt the same, innocent way ever again.

 

 

 

“Must you do that?” Percival sighs, setting his pen down atop the pile of papers. “Goldstein was right behind you.”

Newt just smiles cheekily as he locks the doors because of course he knew that. “She wouldn’t tell anyone. Except Queenie, maybe.”

“That’s not the point,” and his lover might be glaring at him but Newt can see the light flush of his cheeks, the unconscious relaxing of the shoulders, body leaning slightly forward towards him all from the moment Newt had announced his entrance.

“Have you been good while I was away, darling?” Newt asks casually, voice dropping a notch lower, stepping over to the couch on the side of the office to set down his suitcase and very much aware of the eyes that follow him.

“Newt—”

Newt quiets him with a small shake off the head as he takes off his coat and removing his scarf, pulls off his bowtie. When he turns around to face him, Percival looks caught, torn. He isn’t fully accustomed to this just yet even though they’ve talked about it; he trusts Newt to take the lead, but doesn’t quite trust himself to follow.

A couple strides brings him right next to the man, and he manoeuvres them so that he’s perched on the desk in front of Percival, looking down at his lover still in his chair. He starts slow, leaning down for a kiss, hand around Percival’s nape and squeezing the littlest bit at the soft skin there. Percival opens on a sigh for Newt’s tongue, mouths joining again deeper, wetter. The sound of their kissing is loud in the otherwise quiet space, and arousal simmers underneath, waiting to be quenched or stoked.

They part, not far, sharing the air between them as they breathe slightly heavier. Newt enjoys the redness of Percival’s face, glistening lips. He brings his hand around from the back of the neck to cup the man’s jaw, fingers curling around the side and caressing the peek of skin above his shirt’s collar. His thumb presses at the corner of Percival’s mouth before sliding along it from left to right to wipe the remaining saliva off of those beautiful lips, but really it’s an excuse to cause the hitch of breath and draw a soft noise from between them.

“Let’s try that again,” Newt murmurs. “I’m home, Percival.”

This time, the eyes that meet him are shy but no longer hesitant. Percival swallows once and Newt feels the movement against his palm, waits.

And a moment later…

“Welcome home, daddy.”

 


	5. that's your job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this hilarious post](https://ladyoftheshrimp.tumblr.com/post/168425765622/percival-graves-fuck-newt-scamander-queenie) and honestly check this person's blog it's amazing

“Fuck Newt Scamander,” Percival hisses, feeling a headache coming on.

“But that’s  _your_  job, sweetie,” Queenie Goldstein, who just happens to be passing by right that moment, remarks.

Percival almost chokes. “Miss Goldstein,” then in a lower voice, “that isn’t public knowledge yet, if you don’t mind.”

He stops. Wait a minute—how did she know?

Queenie grins at him, and Percival realises that he has been had.

“So, it’s true,” she hums, voice quiet as well. “You shouldn’t say something so revealing in one of the busiest departments of MACUSA, Director Graves.”

Percival wonders if this is what they call a woman’s intuition. His mother possesses such a quality, and for all that his father is a powerful, authoritative figure, he could be brought to his knees by a single word from her.

“What are you doing here,” he asks with forced calm.

“Oh, that’s right,” she gasps, then hands him a cloth-wrapped package which he receives without thinking. “Tina forgot her lunch, you see, so I wanted to bring it over. I can’t find her, though, and I need really need to get back to work; so if you’d help me out, that’d be wonderful.”

Before he can say anything—object, get angry, splutter in outrage—she waves cheerfully with a “Thanks, sweetie!” and—Percival swears— _prances_  her way through the people and disappears.

It leaves him dumbfounded for a second or two before he regains his composure and stalks dutifully to Goldstein’s desk, drops the package on top. As he’s walking back towards his office, thoughts back on Newt who inadvertently started this whole mess, he debates whether to inform the man or not. Then he thinks of Queenie’s grin, the sly sparkle in her eyes, and decides that it might be entertaining to watch his lover try and deal with her.

After he scolds the man for his recklessness on the field for the umpteenth time. Then probably fuck him.

He silently thanks Queenie for the idea.


	6. [inspired by art] the sleeping niffler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this lovely, soft picture](http://sssilkworms.tumblr.com/post/168455823453/another-al-parker-composition-for-gramander). This is 'i love sssilkworms' pt. 2 out of so many lol

Percival doesn’t need to ask who won when he comes back from his investigation to find Newt in his office. His lover brings a finger to his lips in a request for silence, shoots him a grateful smile when he casts a silencing charm to block sounds from outside.

“Welcome back,” Newt mouths soundlessly as Percival nears where he’s sitting on the couch.

With a hand on the back of the couch to support himself, Percival leans over and presses a chaste kiss to the man’s lips before turning his attention to a certain troublemaker.

It’s a victory in itself to tire out a creature that is always on the run, and he can’t help but smile at the truly rare sight of a niffler sleeping. Josephine lies atop Newt’s knee, face utterly relaxed in sleep, and it’s endearing to think that no matter how far or how long she runs, she will always come back to him in the end to find peace and rest.

After a questioning glance towards her for permission, Percival brushes a hand over her back gently, then does it again. Being wild and distracted all the time, she never sits still long enough for him to pet her, so he takes advantage of this opportunity. Newt’s hand soon joins his, and their fingers bump together as they coax her into a deeper sleep.

Her little puffs of breath and snuffling melts his heart a little, and something must show on his face because Newt grins knowingly up at him. It would have been embarrassing once to be anything other than stern and disciplined in front of someone, but he no longer feels any shame in being honest around this particular person.

He and Newt end up napping along with Josephine for the next hour and it’s the most peaceful afternoon Percival has had in a long while.


	7. bday ficlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was written for [Alia's](https://auroargraves.tumblr.com/) birthday

It’s customary to receive gifts on one’s birthday, and so a week before the actual date, Newt asks him what he would like.

The question gives Percival a bit of unexpected trouble, having to consider his options carefully. He doesn’t care much for gifts but would rather not be rude by declining the offer; yet he has difficulty reconciling his desires with what may be deemed appropriate at this stage in their relationship. He shouldn’t be demanding, not when what they have is still young and they had only recently become intimate with one another. There is much he needs to learn about Newt such as which creature he really, truly favors despite his claim that he loves all of them equally. Such as what is his deepest fear, why he never graduated from Hogwarts, if Theseus would really kill him once he finds out about them, and… well.

How he likes to be pleasured.

The thought had occurred to him the morning after their second night together, his desire for Newt only growing deeper and stronger, thirsting for the different ways they can be intimate. He wants to know the all the ways in which Newt prefers to be touched, draw as many noises as he can from that long, beautiful throat, not miss a single moment of the man’s face expressing the pleasure he feels.

He also wants Newt to know, that he likes having fingers run through his hair and scrape lightly along his scalp, especially the sides where it’s shaved close, that he enjoys teeth at his earlobe every now and then, that at the height of his orgasm he loves being kissed until he’s breathless.

He wants to ask that they spend a night learning each other through their bodies.

In reality, Percival keeps those things to himself. Normally, he would never be so hesitant when pursuing, but something about Newt makes him want to treasure the man and take it slow. Instead, he asks that Newt’s creatures be good on his birthday and that he wouldn’t mind a well-crafted silver pen to replace the one that he never recovered from that sticky-fingered niffler.

They go out to dinner on the weekend and watch a theatre performance, and only get sidetracked once on the way home by an illegal potions merchant using ingredients from an endangered species, according to Newt. Newt hands him his gift at the door and kisses him goodbye before heading off to his own residence.

That was a wonderful birthday, Percival thinks happily.

And the next year, with more confidence and trust between them, Newt doesn’t even have to ask. He sits on the bed and tells Percival how good he looks on his knees before him while long fingers brush loose strands out of his face. Then he leans down to kiss him, slide his lips along Percival’s jaw and tug at the earlobe with his teeth before murmuring, “Happy birthday, darling.”


	8. says Director Graves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this cute post](https://ladyoftheshrimp.tumblr.com/post/168684480177/seraphina-i-need-abernathy-to-deliver-the) where Picquery is basically cupid. Happens right after that convo.

The strange thing is, no one blinks an eye or even turns from whatever it is they’re doing at his slip of tongue that had just rang loudly throughout the room. No one except one Newt Scamander, that is, who narrows his eyes speculatively from the other side.

Percival shoots a scathing look at Seraphina beside him, horrified and betrayed by her terrible sense of humour. Unfortunately, she seems rather unaffected and tosses him a smirk before schooling her face back to its usual unsympathetic expression.

“Thank you, Mr. Graves,” she says flatly without a hint of the earlier amusement. “Your promptness is greatly appreciated as always.” Then she sweeps her cloak dramatically in a turn and walks out the door.

He decides to plot her murder after he deals with this. A movement in his peripheral catches his attention and he startles to see Scamander marching quickly towards him. The man must be angry, Percival thinks, judging by the grim look he sees. Of course he is; Percival’s unintentional order was beyond appropriate, easily a verbal harassment and abuse of authority. He can only hope that Scamander will accept his explanation but readies himself for any reaction.

“Scamander,” Percival starts as he nears, “I sincerely apologize. That was an honest mistake on my part—”

“Please, call me Newt,” the man interrupts as he stops in front of him, expression unreadable.

“Alright, Newt,” Percival concedes. “I know that—”

Later on, Percival will say that he would have stopped it if he had known, that there was no indication whatsoever that allowed him to anticipate Newt’s intentions despite it technically being what he himself had asked for. But in the present moment, the next thing he knows, a warm hand is curling around his nape and pulling him in slowly yet quickly towards…

_Green. Freckles._

Then a mouth is pressing firmly onto his and Percival freezes, all conscious thoughts fleeing from his mind as his eyes automatically close. Newt’s lips are soft, pursing against his own and that slightest bit of friction sends a pleasant shiver down his spine. Before he can respond in anyway, Newt steps back though his hand remains at Percival’s neck. When Percival opens his eyes, the man looks uncertain yet expectant, a light flush colouring his cheeks.

“How did I do, Mr. Graves?” he asks quietly, voice a little unsteady.

Percival can only stare, dumbfounded, at what just happened. Beyond Newt’s shoulder, he catches two of his aurors exchanging what seems like a bet one lost and the other won.  _Mercy Lewis_. He feels himself growing warm as he clears his throat, trying to regain his composure.

“I, ah, I will need a report on that, Scamander. Newt,” he corrects quickly, fumbling his words. “Would you—I mean. Please come see me in my office in ten minutes.”

He makes a swift exit and ignores all the stares he gets while scolding himself as to why he said that and could he have been anymore pathetic and  _does he like Newt Scamander, he must because he’d very much like to kiss him again. Properly._

Newt is at his office in five minutes and he says that he must not have done a good job and would like another chance to perform his given task.

Percival snorts at that, then says, “Just kiss me, Newt,” and without further ado they share their second of many more to come.


	9. [inspired by art] by the waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lol it should just be inspired by sssilkworms at this point. This time it's [this pretty thing](http://sssilkworms.tumblr.com/post/168742700838)

Depending on who is asked, they will say that it’s strange to see a strong man like Percival Graves in the arms of another like a dainty lady while others might claim that it’s fine since he’s the shorter one so it makes sense ergonomically.

In this case, no opinion matters because it’s just the two of them on the docks, far away from anything and everyone they know, watching the sun set as waters sweep in great strokes along the seashore. It was a spontaneous decision—well, spontaneous for Percival, at least, since Newt usually operates on spontaneity—to take this vacation, both worn out from work and barely having time for one another.

And of course Newt would know the best places with beautiful scenery with his experiences of travelling around the world. On this remote beach in some part of Asia that Percival has never even heard of, he takes in the sights, smells, and sounds that fill him with serenity. He might have drifted mindlessly if not for the arms currently wrapped around his body, grounding him.

Newt had complained some minutes ago that the evening chill and sea winds were too cold, asked for Percival to hold him. Except what ended up happening was that Newt enveloped him completely disregarding Percival’s protests about too long arms and unfairly taking advantage of his height. But then his face gets tucked into the crook of Newt’s neck and he breathes in his lover’s scent—something warm, crisp like the signs of autumn and always with a hint of the exotic—and thinks might never want to leave this embrace.

The fingers on the back of his neck tickle at the short hairs there in a gentle caress, move to cup the base as Percival turns his head just a little so he can still see the sky bleeding red into the clouds. It’s rather nice, he thinks as he relaxes into Newt. When he glances up, the face that he loves is pink at the cheeks, though it’s hard to tell in the brilliant light of the sunset. Percival feels himself warm a little response, contentment blooming in his chest.

Newt smiles at him shyly. “What are you thinking?”

“About how strong and brave you are, Mr. Scamander,” Percival says, in a light-hearted and teasing mood from the weight off his shoulders. His hand lifts to the side of Newt’s face, thumb stroking over the rise of his cheek. “How utterly courageous of you to protect me from these harsh winds.”

He bites back his laughter when Newt stops smiling and furrows his brows, adorably confused by Percival’s sudden change in manner.

“How can I repay you, good sir?” Percival continues in the same tone, leaning up and close so that he breathes the words against the skin of Newt’s jaw.

“Percival, what—”

The rest of his sentence dissolves into a giggle when Percival pulls him in and feathers kisses up along the jawline and blows into his ear. He presses his forehead against Newt’s cheek in an intimate hold and sighs, at peace like he hasn’t been for months. And maybe it’s the scratch of his brows that tickle as well because the man won’t stop laughing. Newt doesn’t try to pull away, though, and the laughter becomes contagious.

The sound of their mingled joy disperses into the crash of the waves.


	10. visiting the manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Write a drabble about newt officially visiting the graves manor and sees percival’s framed photos on the walls, the tables. Basically just every surface and in those photos, percival has long hair and *gasp* smiling
> 
> [Also look what Axil drew for it](https://axilarts.tumblr.com/post/169078365851/write-a-drabble-about-newt-officially-visiting-the) ;;;;;;;

It’s a miracle that Newt even takes five steps into the large, intimidating mansion without passing out or throwing up, but he does stop to get some much-needed air into his lungs. He can’t bear to look up at the two people he needs to please who must be regarding him with disgust and pity, whose son he dares to keep by his side. Oh, he hates this so, etiquette and customs and  _meeting the parents_. He’d much rather find his nundu a mate than go through this.

Shame fills him as tears do his eyes, and he hears Percival call his name, concerned, a large hand warm at his back. He gasps quietly to let loose the some of the tightness in his chest, hand trembling as it searches for any kind of contact to ground him. He finds the edge of Percival’s coat, twists it hard between his fingers and dear Merlin, he’s such a mess, barely managing a hoarse ‘hello’—

Two hands on either side of his face lift it gently, and he blinks wetly, then again to clear the blurriness which reveals a beautiful woman who is smiling softly at him. Her hair shines silver and falls elegantly around a heart-shaped face, large brown eyes framed by long lashes, the wrinkles around them and at the corners of her curved lips the only things belying her age.

“There you are,” she says to him, voice matching the gentle expression he sees. “You are quite an adorable young man, aren’t you?” A thumb brushes under Newt’s eye, wiping at the moisture.

“Mother,” Percival sighs from next to him.

“Go with your father, Percival,” she says without even looking. “We will join you soon.”

Newt’s heart sinks to his stomach and he glances desperately out the corner of his eye, trying to relay a cry for help from his lover. But all Percival does is smile slightly, leans in and presses a kiss to his temple.

“You’ll be alright, Newt,” he murmurs in reassurance, then louder, “Please don’t keep him too long, mother.”

Mrs. Graves flicks her head impatiently over her shoulder as if telling Percival to go away, and he kisses her on the cheek as pulls away from Newt. The two Graves men leave and betrayal stabs through Newt’s chest, biting his lip against calling out because he has ruined enough already—

“I—I’m sorry, Mrs. Graves,” he blurts out, grimacing. “I… I…”

Mrs. Graves shakes her head, hushes him. “Whatever for, dear?” Her hands drop down to his and she takes them between hers. “Here, come with me. We’ll get you a drink first.”

She moves around to his side and hooks her arm around his, leads him down a different direction from where Percival went earlier. Newt can only follow silently while his heart tries to burst through his chest. His breathing shortens at some point but he’s able to keep it under control when Mrs. Graves encourages him to listen and copy her.

They arrive at a kitchen bigger than half his residence in New York, and its cleanliness, the white of it, nearly blinds him. Mrs. Graves seats him at a counter in the middle of the room without a word, and he watches her nervously as she moves to put a kettle on the stove.

“Percival tells me you like tea?” she inquires to which Newt stammers out a confirmation. “We don’t have too much variety, I’m afraid. I hope green tea is fine.”

“Fine! I mean, um, anything is fine,” Newt manages.

She smiles at him before stepping towards one of the cupboards, looking like she’s gliding along the floor rather than walking on it. Everything is prepared manually, and it’s the most graceful Newt has ever seen of a person. Unfortunately, the observation comes with another heavy reminder that perhaps this isn’t the family he should be fitting himself into. A soft tune fills the air when Mrs. Graves starts to hum while working, and Newt belatedly realizes that he shouldn’t be staring so much.

But his eyes have nowhere to go even as they wander, because he doesn’t care much for these symbols of luxury in the architecture, the decorations, the—

His head snaps back to what he just saw, feels his eyes widen in disbelief. As if possessed, he is dragged up out of his seat and drawn towards a small, individual drawer to the side of the kitchen, and on it sits a photo. A photo of Percival, to be exact.

The first thing Newt notices is  _long_. His hair. Longer than Newt has ever seen it, falling down to his shoulders like a dark curtain hiding a lovely view. It sways gently with each movement, wavers from a probable breeze from when this photo was taken. The man in the photo is a younger version of the one mere rooms away, the same thick brows and straight nose, perfect bow of a mouth. But it’s youthful in a way that is foreign to Newt, the eyes especially telling in the way they shine with an innocence that is rare to see in the man he loves. They twinkle with a hint mischief and curve like his lips in apparent joy, creating carefree and happy picture.

The Percival in the photo sees something to the side and laughs before turning to face the viewer, and Newt’s heart squeezes with affection for the youth his lover once was.

“That’s a lovely photo, isn’t it,” Mrs. Graves says from behind him, causing him to whirl around in surprise. “It was when one of his cousins came over, if I recall correctly, and they were engaged in a mock duel which involved throwing horrid things at each other. At one point, poor Charlie tripped over his own feet and fell head first into the mud he had been intending to throw at Percival and now you know that my son is a terrible person who finds joy in another’s misery.”

Newt, who had been blushing because  _oh god, he just got caught ogling her son’s picture_  then listening aptly to the story, blinks in surprise. “Oh. Uh, he’s quite nice most of the time. I think.”

Mrs. Graves laughs softly and Newt finds the sound rather comforting. “It’s alright, dear, I know what he’s like. Now, I’m sure you would like to see some more. I can show you after you’ve had your tea.”

What he had initially thought was the worst day of his life becomes one of the most memorable ones, being shown photo after photo as he tours the house of Percival at various stages of his life. His long hair only lasted during his Ilvermony years, cut as soon as he entered Aurors Training, and Mrs. Graves admits that she still has no idea to this day why had decided to grow it in the first place.

“I’m not certain whether that boy even knows himself,” she sighs and shakes her head, making Newt laugh.

Newt likes one particular photo with Percival’s hair tied up and out of the way as he pulls what looks like weeds from a field. It’s a strange mix of a pretty face with a long, bound tail sitting delicately over one shoulder, yet there is no doubt to his masculinity in the build of his body; an aesthetic that simply draws him in with its contradictions and harmony.

By the end of the tour, thanks to his new friend’s generosity, Newt has started a private collection of his own for which he feels guilty and a little inappropriate, but Mrs. Graves assures that it’s fine. He tucks them safely into the inner pocket of his coat and he pats it against his chest; it feels like a precious secret guarded closely to his heart.

Percival greets him with kiss when they finally join them, and Newt can’t wait to go home and ask about every moment that he can now hold in his hands.


	11. kissing to relax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> powerbloggerjung asked: Percy’s hair is a little mussed up because someone has been playing with it; running his freckled fingers in Percy’s hair, scratching the scalp lightly; cooing gently and giving him a quick kiss or two or three just to calm Percy down before an interview with the magazine about his current plan for MACUSA.
> 
> Tags: kissing, a lot of it

“Newt,” Percival gasps. “Wait, Newt,  _not the hair_ —”

“Hush, love,” Newt murmurs against Percival’s lips, licking between them once more as his fingers brush up the sides of his head and into carefully-styled locks, tugging at them the slightest bit and pulling back a little to grin at the sound it evokes.

He pecks that lovely mouth once, twice to let the man breathe, and strokes through the strands of hair, relaxing it from their deliberate form into something softer, more natural. His fingertips press into the scalp like a massage and Percival unconsciously bares his throat as he leans into the touch, long, dark lashes fluttering from the sensation. Newt kisses the corner of Percival’s mouth and the point of his chin, places one for each mole on his left cheek before nuzzling into the junction of his neck and shoulder. He breathes onto the skin and feels Percival swallow in response.

For all that the man styles his hair perfectly every day, Newt knows that he loves having it messed and played with. It relaxes him, he had said, the touch calming him like nothing else and so it can only be done by those he trusts, those who love him.

When he draws away to see, his lover seems tranquil despite the pink of his cheeks and glistening mouth, hair still slicked back but in a way that accepted another’s touch.

“They’ll love you, darling,” Newt encourages with a smile.  _They always do_ , he thinks.

Percival looks back with grateful eyes and returns the smile. “Thank you.”

It’s a miracle that the interviewer gets through the session without imploding, moved by every gesture Percival makes and each word he speaks. Her fingers twitch as if she wants to touch him, especially that strand of his hair that hangs teasingly over the side like it’s asking to be brushed back again. But she can’t, not even when the official segment is over and she spews words to hold Percival’s attention a little longer.

That’s for Newt, the privilege his and his alone as the one who takes the esteemed Director Graves home. He’s the one who can tumble them onto the couch because they can’t wait, the one who can choose to comb Percival’s hair back neatly or tangle it between his hands and pull.

And as they lie cramped together, heartbeats slowing and sweat cooling on their bared forms, he’s the one who gets to cradle Percival preciously, scratch his nails lightly over his head and make him sigh in contentment.


	12. smol and tol pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this post - 
> 
> allforthegreatergood asked: But what if Graves wears those fancy spats to hide the fact that his boots are designed to make him a few inches taller?
> 
> funkzpiel: Ooooooh my goodness - the first time Newt sees him without his boots on, fresh from bed and brewing coffee, and he’s shorter - Newt just about has a heart attack. Because he’s Director Percival Graves with bedhead and sleepy eyes, a big mug of coffee and comfy sleepwear, and he’s smol. Adorable and smol.
> 
> Tags: height difference, kissing, implied sexual content, morning-after

The last time Newt imbibed alcohol was over two years ago when he had made the decision to temporarily reside in New York to be an expert consultant as a favour to MACUSA. Well, it had been  _them_  owing  _him_  a favour, actually, for the whole Grindelwald fiasco, and they couldn’t refuse his generous offer to educate them in the way of creatures.

Theseus had been present to kindly advise (or threaten) the newly reinstated Director Graves, who had recovered well enough to resume his duties by then, to take care of his little brother. They had drunk in moderation, still being strangers and the setting more of a formality than an actual outing for leisure. Newt had been far more distracted trying to get subtle glimpses of the man with the same face as the one who had tried to kill him.

If he recalls correctly, he thinks, peeling his eyes open and blinking away the blurriness. His memories seem to be little muddled at the moment in the aftermath of a celebratory night with his co-workers from a successful case. He’s in bed, so he got home somehow.

Wait.

He’s in  _a_  bed, so he got to  _a_  home. The sheets between his fingers are dark silk and the sun is shining in from a different direction. Newt rolls over with significant effort to escape it, groaning, and is shocked awake when his hand slips off the side of the bed, nearly making him tumble off. He bangs that hand against the dresser next to it as he brings it back up and when he grabs onto the edge of it, his fingers smack into something that tips over.  _Clink_.  _Clang_.

 _Water glass_ , he curses inwardly, glaring at the stream that drips onto the floor below, some pooling around his hand. But then he notices another glass—bottle—and huffs in surprise when he recognizes the hangover potion. Someone is rather polite.

Newt pushes himself up to balance on an elbow so he can grab it. He doesn’t hurt, not like the stories of pounding heads and nausea he has heard from others, but he’d like to clear up the fogginess in his head and possibly get away before his host sees him again. The potion is an instant cure and he sighs in relief, lowering himself back onto the sheets. And without that cloud over his head, he starts to notice other things.

Like the aches over his body. A kind of soreness after exercising, especially in his thighs and back. A peculiar ache in his hips and on the lips, stinging and sensitivity across his chest. His  _nudity_.

He snaps his head up with a gasp and scrambles to sit up, bare legs slipping and sliding over silk and looks around—oh no, oh dear.

A familiar coat and scarf hang on the closed door of the room, a pair of equally familiar shoes tossed haphazardly into an open compartment in the wall that seems to be the closet, pressed shirts and jackets hanging neat and organized.

Dread fills his chest and his stomach drops. He finally did it, after holding back these last months, all in a single night of reduced inhibition. He has thrown himself at Director Graves inelegantly in a mess of hormones, rendering their slow but steady progress of gauging one another’s interest and building of tension into something tasteless. Oh, how terribly unromantic, he despairs, souring an already sour taste in his mouth.

Newt sighs again as he pulls himself up out of bed to look for his clothes, hoping that the man will forgive him and respond favourably to his request for a date even if the order is all mixed up now.

It isn’t difficult to navigate the flat and he finds the bathroom, then the living room where his case sits. Newt easily pushes his current situation from his mind as worry for the creatures surges to the forefront, and he immediately heads down to check and feed them. He discovers with great surprise that they already have been taken care of for the morning, and something twists in his heart even as it warms.

Director Graves is in the kitchen and Newt arrives just in time to see the man pouring himself a cup of coffee—second? Third? He should have been up for a while—and it makes him pause at the doorway, shifting awkwardly and twisting his fingers as the reminders of last night on his body make themselves known again. The man glances up and sees him, lips quirking slightly before he takes a sip from his mug, looking like a fashion model advertising coffees and kitchens and possibly the sleepwear. They’re soft clothes that he never has never imagined the director capable of wearing, a plain white shirt, soft, patterned pyjama bottoms that accentuate a luscious curve, and combined with Merlin,  _that hair_  and is that from sleep or was it Newt—

“Good afternoon,” Director Graves greets in a husky tone, eyes unexpectedly warm.

Newt swallows. “A-afternoon. Is it that late already?”

“I’m surprised that you didn’t sleep longer,” is the response. “You seemed quite tired.”

And that makes Newt flush, embarrassed by all the possible scenarios his mind conjures as to why that would be. Still, he walks over when the man gestures him closer and Newt can’t help a smile when he sees a selection of tea bags laid out on the counter next to the coffeemaker. He turns to thank him and pauses, something seeming off for some reason. His fingers are itching to run through the soft-looking strands falling artfully and framing the director’s face, watches absently as those dark eyes blink and thick brows furrow in confusion.

A flash of a memory:  _hands; hands everywhere, on him, in his hair, teeth biting at his lips, his back against a wall or door. Newt is tilting his head the slightest bit to meet the hot mouth below his and whimpering into it, pulling back with a gasp and eyes opening to molten desire being mirrored back at him._

“Did you shrink?” Newt blurts without thinking, then immediately winces and bites on his lip. The glare he receives is too frightening and he doesn’t make a peep when a bare heel digs into his foot painfully.

But he’d have to be blind to not notice the pink spreading across the man’s face and colouring the tips of his ears, confirming his observation. It’s rather endearing, has him moving closer unconsciously until he’s right next to him and further emphasizing the difference.

Director Graves huffs in annoyance and casts him a knowing look. “It’s the shoes, if you must know.”

Maybe he replies, maybe he doesn’t, but all Newt knows is that he’s moving, touching the other’s arm and taking his mug to set it down, pushing Director Graves little by little—thrilled as he follows obediently—until he has him caged between his own arms against the countertop. Heat shoots through him when the man has to lean back and tilt his head further to meet Newt’s eyes. Want pools deep in his belly as other memories of their night together surface and the comparison is stark before him.

If he were to kiss Director Graves right now, he’d hook a finger under the man’s chin and nudge it to angle him properly. And Director Graves knows this, trembles minutely against him even as his hands come up to hold Newt’s hips.

“Scamander—Newt,” he corrects when Newt raises a brow. “If you tell anyone—”

“Who would I tell?” Newt asks, frowning. “I’d very much like to keep this for myself,” and then he bites his lip again and ducks his head because he apparently can’t control his words as well as he’d like. But since he has already revealed everything, he continues, shyly, “If you don’t mind.”

Rough hands cup his jaw and lift, then soft lips press against his in a kiss that tastes of bitter coffee, yet it’s sweet.

“How about a date first?” Director Graves asks amusedly, eyes crinkled at the corners. “We’re long overdue for that, I believe.”

And he looks so beautiful, everything about him relaxed and at ease in Newt’s arms and Newt acknowledges this for the privilege it is. He leans in helplessly, smiles at the way arms wind around his neck and pulls him down.

“Yes,” he agrees, muttering the word into the nape of Percival’s neck two hours later after a sober round of sex.

He curls further around the director’s back as they lie on the bed and marvels at the fit of them together.


	13. smol and tol pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to smol and tol requested by Trensu <3
> 
> Tags: kissing, height difference, height kink

For lack of a better description, Newt changes—and it isn’t difficult to pinpoint a specific reason or timing for it. He’s no less sweet and caring, perhaps less shy than before their night together, still blushes at displays of affection Percival is learning to express. They aren’t things highly noticeable to the unsuspecting eye, but solely Percival-related in that these new behaviours affect him directly.

Newt stares  _down_  at him. A lot. He’ll take most opportunities to sidle up next to Percival and look somewhere in the vicinity of the top of his head. Whether that is better than the shoulder-area-glance, Percival can’t say. If Percival turns to meet him, he’ll smile something silly and if in private, catch him off-guard with a kiss sometimes.

(It’s a measure of Newt’s comfort level, he learns, to physically connect with another in some way or form. From easy kisses to a hand on the shoulder or back, lightly brushing over his jaw and neck, leaning into him when close by, the man both flusters and warms him.)

Not only that, he has taken to reaching over Percival’s head to grab an object, drape over his shoulders, and trap him with his body against surfaces.

In other words, Newt enjoys that Percival has to look up. It isn’t mocking which is the strange part, because he’s familiar with that experience from co-workers who had wanted to intimidate him in the earlier years of his training and career. With sheer willpower and self-discipline, he had made himself the better man and not allowed his stature to be a sore spot, knowing that he would be superior in all the ways that mattered in this profession. And so, even that first time when Newt had gaped after discovering his true height without the assistance of added platforms, Percival hadn’t minded.

Yet Newt gazes upon him with delight, prefers that he be barefooted when at home and cages him between long arms before tilting his head back for a kiss—soft, deep, wet, all kinds of them until Percival is complaining about a sore neck.

“Sorry, sorry,” Newt apologizes half-sincerely each time, eyes dark with something that brings blood rushing to Percival’s cheeks and heat coiling in his stomach.

And if a surface is available, more often than not his lover—with (always) surprising strength—lifts him onto the kitchen counter or desk or dining table so that Percival can be level with him and continue exploring that taste of Newt he can’t get enough of. Deft fingers sweep along his jaw, over his ears and temple, curl over the back of his neck and tickle the short hairs at the base. They cause shivers down his spine and his legs to tighten around Newt’s waist as he moans into that hot mouth.

Newt breaks the kiss and breathes shallow and quick, eyes roaming over the details of his face even as Percival’s are drawn to highlighted freckles, the swollen, spit-slick lips of the other man. Strong hands press into Percival’s thighs and drag down to his knees, parting them a little. Moving back, he looks down between them and Percival knows where he focuses—how his feet dangle up above the floor while Newt’s remain firmly on the ground.

A strange one, Percival thinks, as Newt looks back up and sees again that Percival is at his height even with elevation, licking his lips and blinking slow. He had never imagined that being shorter in comparison could be the source of someone’s joy in this way but then again, he had never imagined meeting someone like Newt Scamander either with all his passion and kindness, infinitely infuriating and endearing.

Percival leans away as Newt closes in again and can’t help an amused smile when the man pouts. A thumb caresses over Newt’s face and he draws in to brush their noses together, hears and feels a content sigh.

“You really like this,” Percival says.

“This?” Newt mumbles, pushing just a bit like he wants to reach his mouth again.

“That I’m shorter, smaller than you.”

Newt’s eyes widen. “No? Um. Well. Does it show?” he trails off quietly at the end, another blush rising to the tops of his cheeks.

“It couldn’t be more obvious,” Percival returns dryly.

“Oh,” and there’s slight mortification in his tone. Still, he doesn’t shy away as is his tendency and it’s his turn to nudge with his nose. “You don’t seem to mind.”

To that Percival says nothing and watches Newt’s gaze grow a little desperate. It isn’t until Percival smiles that Newt does, too, relieved—and that’s how he catches a glimpse of his influence over this clever, attractive man, the mutual power the other has over him as well.

Because indeed he doesn’t mind, and he breathes that reassurance into Newt’s waiting mouth.


	14. one in every four (modern college au, pining)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this post](https://ladyoftheshrimp.tumblr.com/post/169199425702/percival-i-heard-that-one-in-every-four-friends)
> 
> "PERCIVAL: I heard that one in every four friends is gay.  
> PERCIVAL: I hope it's Newt. He's quite cute."
> 
> Tags: modern!au, pining!Percival, college!au

Percival has doubts when he first reads about it on the internet, but all things considered, it makes sense. They live in an era where all manners of sexuality are being openly accepted and therefore, others like himself are gaining the confidence to reveal their preferences. It makes him curious, to be honest, because while they aren’t a large group, there are certainly more than four of them. Including himself, that means there could possibly be one other.

It’s stupid, because he knows better than to believe everything presented in the media but a spark of hope lights in his chest regardless.

“So, who is it?” Sera asks before taking a sip of her coffee.

They’re sat at a table in one of those bustling hipster cafes that opened up this week since Percival secretly very much enjoys discovering and visiting them and Seraphina is the only friend he confides in with this information. She spoils him, really, indulges him.

Percival pauses, splutters, “I’m just saying—alright, fine, don’t look at me like that.”

Sera’s eyebrow remains arched even as she grins, tips her chin at him as if to say, “Go on.”

“Well,” Percival sighs, running a hand through his hair, “it may not be appropriate. We already have a good thing going with the group, and he most likely isn’t…” he waves a hand vaguely and with the other brings his cup to his mouth and taps it there. “But I think—”

“Newt!” Sera exclaims, making Percival jostle his cup in shock and choke on nothing.

“How did you—?”

“Phee!” Percival hears a familiar voice from behind and clamps his mouth shut.

A figure walks past him, leans over to hug his friend; ginger curls mesh with blond waves, delicate feminine hands laid over the man’s shoulders, then both draw back to regard one another, disgustingly sweet.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Sera comments warmly, showing a rare, soft side of her. “How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks,” he responds.

The man turns and nearly blinds Percival with his smile. “Percy!” And in the next moment he has an armful of an excited puppy.

“Oof,” Percival coughs exaggeratedly, but also smiles as he returns the embrace. “Hello, Newt.”

Newt lets go too soon, much to his disappointment, and stands back to look between them.

“Do you want to join us?” Sera asks first.

“No, it’s alright,” Newt says, eyes adorably wide and apologetic. “I’m here with Tina. We’re just going to grab our drinks and head to the library; got a project to work on.”

Percival twists his head and spots Tina in line, waves at her when she notices them. They really are always together, Tina and Newt, he thinks with a twinge in his chest. His hope dwindles.

“Here,” he says, turning back, pulling out his wallet and a bill from it. “It’s my treat.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Newt shakes his head.

“But next time it’s on you,” Percival adds, knowing it’d make him feel better.

“Alright,” Newt huffs in exasperation and it’s too cute for words. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, though.”

“What do you mean?” Percival shrugs innocently.

“Thanks, Percy, and sorry for interrupting,” and with a final lopsided grin, Newt worms his way through the crowd back to Tina.

Percival watches him disappear before sinking back into his seat and Sera just watches him in silence. Belatedly, he remembers their previous topic of conversation, how close he had been to revealing it, and desperately hopes that Sera didn’t hear his earlier slip-up.

“He could be gay,” Sera tosses at him casually a moment later, lips twitching in obvious amusement.

Dear god, he groans inwardly. “Shut up.”


	15. 5 nifflers, one director + prequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> powerbloggerjung asked: I don’t know if you’ve come across the post about percy grumbling to newt about having just one normal dinner w/ him & newt is cradling 5 baby nifflers in his arms & asking percy to put the babies to sleep. please write abt percy putting the bby nifflers to sleep bc the image is just too adorable & i always hv soft spot for niffler and percy brotp 💖
> 
> Tags: niffler shenanigans, writer did not study magizoology, and was sceptical about baby niffler pics

The youngest are the twins, Jack and Jill, two sly manipulators. They somehow have the intelligence to work in tandem to maximize each one’s own gain and it’s double the effort for Percival and Newt to catch them. But where one is, the other is nearby so they have their own strategy that uses that fact to their advantage. Jack and Jill have expensive tastes that causes quite the problem for Percival because his department has to deal with the disgruntled rich folk who come whining about thieves and criminals and  _I bought that necklace last week at a private auction. Have you ever been to one of those? Are you even listening to me?_

And  _then_  he has to deal with whining baby nifflers who have their toys taken away and need to be punished. They’re put to bed whimpering pitifully and burrowing into Newt’s shoulder, avoiding Percival which upsets him more than he’d like to admit.

“They’re just babies,” Newt tries to comfort him, and adds unhelpfully, “you frighten them, is all.”

Mary is the oldest and sweetest of them all, the most susceptible to bribes and constantly seeking Percival’s approval. ‘Daddy’s girl’, Newt calls her, and well, Percival spoils her a bit. How can he not when bright, round eyes watch him adoringly and a soft head of fur nudges at his hand for pets? She plays nicely with the pile of trinkets that she is given, ever-growing as a reward for her good behaviour. She likes cuddles and lullabies, staying warm between him and Newt until she falls asleep and clings onto Percival’s arm when he carries her back into the case. She’s the only one who he dares to kiss good night without having his eyes scratched out.

Gary is a troublemaker but in a way that’s true to his nature. Percival and his aurors play hide-and-seek with him on a regular basis when he opts to tag along to work (which is far more often than Percival would like), nicking silver pens and jewellery and shiny lighters. When Percival finds the little guy sitting on his hoard somewhere in the office and catches him so he can return everything, he sometimes finds out more about his aurors than he ever has in the past five years. Like who smokes, who is about to propose, whose mother passed away and is desperately searching for her memento, who is religious or superstitious and so on.

Gary eventually tires himself out and doesn’t even twitch when Percival lifts him from the desk and onto his lap, the scratching of a quill lulling him to sleep.

Albert, the middle child, is a downright menace. He’s everything a niffler is and then some. Rebellious and borderline maniacal, it’s safe to say that anything taken by him is as good as lost which is why they need to take preventative measures especially for him. He goes place where he has no business being such as a  _smuggling ring_  and it takes everything Percival has not to hex the smugglers to hell and back when his team raids the scene of the crime and finds Albert in a cage, crying. Percival leaves the aurors to detain all perpetrators while he carefully breaks the cage open, catches the little furball when he leaps into Percival’s chest. He gently runs a hand over and over the shivering body until it calms, until he feels the weight in his arm grow heavier and slump, until he hears soft, steady snores.

Newt greets him at the office when he returns and immediately takes Albert into the suitcase. And though there is paperwork left to do, Percival follows his husband down to make sure everything is alright, knowing he’ll be distracted otherwise.

Josephine sits on Newt’s workbench, watching the man check over her baby for any injuries, and she blinks up at Percival when he nears them. He reaches over and pats her head, sighs.

“Your children are as bad as you,” he mutters, both exasperated and fond.

She looks at him proudly.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_The Prequel_

 

For all that Percival constantly expresses utter annoyance at Josephine’s antics—particularly with regards to his belongings—he frets even more than Newt when she’s giving birth to her first litter. It gets to the point that Newt has to ban him from the suitcase, no matter his excuse to learn all goings-on of the creatures for the purpose of security.

“You might need my help—alright, foolish thing to suggest,” Percival corrects himself.

Once Percival and his hovering is gone, Newt assists the poor niffler in peace.

Thankfully, no problems arise and soon all five pups are latching enthusiastically onto the tired but equally healthy mother.

Then Percival immediately wants to see them but Newt refuses visitations on Josephine’s behalf. It’s only until everyone within his case become accustomed to one another so as to not endanger the pups by startling them, really. His lover nods like he understands and Newt finds his calm façade entertaining. He doesn’t seem to quite get how obvious he can be with his emotions; it’s rather adorable.

“They’re absolutely fine, you’ve nothing to worry about,” Newt reassures.

“Who says I’m worried?” Percival scoffs, the twitching eyebrows saying otherwise.

It takes everything Newt has in that moment to not burst out laughing or simply grab Percival’s clearly worried face and kiss him silly.

Well, he doesn’t quite succeed in resisting the latter.

 

 

“What in Morgana’s name are  _those_?”

The tone gives Newt pause because it isn’t nearly as appreciative as he was expecting. He turns from where he was stirring the mixture for the pups’ food and finds Percival a good couple metres away from Josephine’s nest.

“The babies, Percival,” he replies, and after a beat pointedly adds, “The ones you wanted to so desperately see.” Newt charms the spoon to continue stirring and walks over to join him. “Here from the left: Mary, Gary, Albert, and the twins—well, I decided because one came scrambling out immediately after the other—Jack and Jill.”

“They’re… different. They look nothing like her,” Percival says, looking vaguely disgusted.

And Newt feels vaguely offended on behalf of Josephine. “They do grow, you know.”

Percival doesn’t seem convinced; just as well because Newt has no intention of letting someone unappreciative near them.

“Go stir the pot for me, will you?” Newt tells him with smile, baring his teeth. “You’re frightening them.”

Watching Percival glance uncertainly at the nifflers one last time, Newt shakes his head. After shooting Newt a look, his lover goes to do just that.

What a terrible first impression, Newt thinks as he strokes at soft bellies that will soon be stuffing themselves with stolen goods.

But of course, they take after him in that sense and in only a few weeks, he catches the little critters climbing all over Percival as he moves throughout the house while the man doesn’t mind it at all, occasionally catching the ones that are about to tumble off. And them taking naps (that is to say, Percival falling asleep over his paperwork on his chair and the babies finding their own spots on his person) together. And Percival smiling silly at them as they scramble for his attention.

“I think I might be a bit jealous,” Newt tells Josephine sitting on his shoulder, not certain of which he speaks.

Josephine pats his face like she somehow understands.


	16. "it was sexier in my head" (shotgunning)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [ladyoftheshrimp @ tumblr](https://ladyoftheshrimp.tumblr.com/): How are you with the idea of Percival smoking? Imagine him and Newt in bed, Percival lights a cigarette and Newt is curious. They try a shotgun kiss because Newt had read about them. That’s how he ends up coughing like no tomorrow while Percival shrugs. “It was sexier in my head.” Newt eventually gasps.
> 
> Tags: kissing, shotgunning, Newt being Newt

It doesn’t happen very often, but every now and then, Newt tastes smoke in the kisses he shares with Percival. Peculiar, not so strong, difficult to decide whether he likes it or not; but it’s another side of his boyfriend he discovers.

They haven’t been together long, a bit less than a month, but it already has Newt anticipating how they will progress in their relationship. After meeting a couple years ago when Percival and his group of aurors had clashed with Newt’s own rescue mission at the same illegal trades site (and he got detained along with the criminals, he recalls fondly), he had perhaps known unconsciously since then that this man would become special to him. Because Percival had been efficient but not careless when dismantling the operation, making sure each creature was retrieved and handled properly, impressing Newt with his knowledge of them.

Later on, he tells Newt it’s because he prides himself in knowing anything that pertains to the laws of his country, creatures included.

Afterwards, it didn’t take much time for his affections to grow for him, dropping by New York frequently during his travels so that Percival could scold him for his latest law-breaking adventure and Newt could consult on whatever creature-related case they had at the time.

Percival is a wonderful person, kind and gentle even if he denies it vehemently, strict but just, and good. So good.

And now Newt has the privilege of tasting those lips after fantasizing about it for the last half year or so.

They part to breathe, and immediately he licks his own mouth to chase the flavour that fades too quickly. Percival catches the movement, lips quirking in amusement as his eyes grow darker with heat.

“How often do you smoke?” Newt voices his curiosity.

Percival’s eyes widen and the man seems startled like he didn’t expect that before he frowns in realization. “Sorry, it must be unpleasant.”

Newt shakes his head. “It isn’t bad.”

“Not often,” Percival sighs, a hand running through his hair. “When I’m highly stressed—it comes with the job; sometimes for no other reason than I want to.” He then smacks his lips lightly as if recalling a tangible thing, mouth pursing without even thinking.

And Newt leans in again to steal another kiss, the temptation too great.

He realises belatedly that mentioning it had the adverse effect; perhaps it made Percival conscious of his not-quite habit, but from that day on, every kiss is smoke-free, and he sort of misses it, much to his own surprise. Yet even he isn’t so shameless to ask that Percival leave the lingering scent so that Newt can lick it from his mouth. The only way, then, is to catch Percival in the act.

Newt finds the idea in a romance novel of all things, and he wonders with a flush as he reads if this shouldn’t be an erotica because the descriptions in this particular scene are quite sensual, almost sexual. The words draw a picture in his head and it’s an attractive one, stays in his mind for the next little while. He forgets, eventually, because Percival never smokes when Newt’s around.

Until he does one night after a time of intimacy, Percival moving to sit up against the headboard of the bed and summoning wandlessly a stick and a lighter. And Newt watches from his position on his stomach, pushed up on his elbows, fascinated. The cigarette lights itself before floating neatly between thin lips which purse around it to suck, and the end burns bright as smoke starts to emanate.

Percival sighs like he’s content, holds the stick with his fingers and draws it out, breathes out foggy, grey air; his hair is disheveled and loose from their activities, face soft and relaxed and lit by the evening light so that shadows play across the angles and planes. Every movement is natural, connected, practiced.

The pretty picture invokes another forgotten one, fills his mind as if it had been waiting to blossom again.

Newt pushes himself up higher after Percival inhales a second time and the man startles again like he just realized what he’s doing. He starts to open his mouth—possibly to apologize—wisps of smoke escaping and Newt closes his own over his, feels Percival freeze and release a surprised breath. It enters hotly and Newt breathes—

—but then it hits the back of his throat like a fierce sting and catches him off guard. He pulls back in shock and his body forces him to cough it out, eyes watering and throat burning. He ends up hacking, wheezing, because it tickles and scratches and the coughing only provokes one fit after another and prolongs the suffering.

A hand then touches his neck and magical energy flows, clearing the terrible residue and soothes the soreness.

Newt looks up at Percival with blurry eyes, wipes at them, and it’s just in time to catch the end of Percival’s face shifting from one expression to another. He regards Newt impassively with a raised brow.

“Why did you do that?”

Newt’s ears and face and the back of his neck burns almost as badly as his throat did mere seconds ago, can feel it spread down to his chest. Percival notices, lips twitching. The relaxing atmosphere after their lovemaking is effectively gone thanks to his stunt, rapidly making way for humiliation and in Percival’s case: amusement.

“It worked better in my head,” Newt mutters.

He doesn’t reply when the man asks  _where in Merlin’s name did he get such an idea_ ; no amount of needling will make him answer that particular question.

A few days later, the book is bought and burned as fuel for the fireplace.


	17. of bubble baths and nifflers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Percival can never take a bubble bath alone because the niffler sees the bubbles as treasure and tries to take them all.
> 
> Tags: shameless fluff, bubble baths

Newton Scamander’s little thief has a complicated relationship with visible pockets of air that float delicately for the duration of mere seconds.

Its reflective surface showcases a beautiful prism of colours when the light hits it just right, attracting the lover of shiny objects, beckoning him towards itself. But it shies away from his grasp like a bashful maiden and disappears with nary a sound should he succeed. And he knows this, the futility of it, he does; but every time he sees it he can’t help but be drawn.

An elusive thing that frustrates even the best of plunderers.

And so one Director of Magical Security uses this shamelessly to his advantage, conjuring this useful tool in order to distract the pesky niffler from stealing other things. It’s a constant battle between willpower and temptation that challenges the creature on a regular basis, mixed with a healthy dose of resentment towards Percival Graves.

However, every once in a while, the niffler will catch a bubble that doesn’t pop—at least not immediately—surprising the little critter pleasantly and giving him the opportunity to play with it a while. And if the usually stern man allows himself a smile at the adorable sight, that’s a secret between the two of them.

(And perhaps an audience or many who happen to peek into the office at the time.)

It doesn’t occur to the man the overall effect he induces, nor the consequences outside their little game.

Every now and then when he’s feeling particularly exhausted or the need to indulge himself, he draws a bath and adds something special to the waters, making for a fragrant and therapeutic time of peace. Recently, however, his budding relationship with someone who lives spontaneously and doesn’t quite adhere to customary behaviour makes for some difficulty in finding the opportunity to do so. He takes it upon himself to inform his lover in very clear terms that he needs the occasional time alone and isn’t to be disturbed even if an erumpent stampedes through the streets of New York City.

Newt remembers for the most part.

But then a day comes when he barges through the door of Percival’s house, a little excited and a lot forgetful, brimming with the urge to share with his lover the unbelievable discovery he had just made on the outskirts of the city: an unidentified beast, possibly native to America. The niffler he had to chase down  _again_  wriggles out of his arm with a huff and scampers deeper into the residence. Newt is busy removing his coat because he at least remembers that before carelessly tossing it over the first surface he sees which is a footrest. He sets down his suitcase and dives in to retrieve the sketches he managed to draw earlier, unaware of the imminent trouble.

The niffler—Theodores is his name, Theo for short; Theo the thief—happens to hear a peculiar yet familiar sound, unusual in that it’s never vocalized in a stream with so many ups and downs, strong then soft in a single breath. He follows, squeezes himself under the little gap beneath the closed door and sets his eyes upon an astonishing sight.

Bubbles, an astounding number of them bunched together that they appear opaque instead of their usual transparency. They would not have caught his attention if not for the few strays that floated away from the rest and shone in the light of the bathroom. And in the middle of it all is the man who started their game without him, laid back in a large porcelain tub while humming a tune with his eyes closed. So accustomed to the presence of a niffler is he that he doesn’t register the black ball of fur flying his way until it’s too late.

Newt hears a magnificent scream just as he climbs out of the case, belatedly realizes his mistake as he runs towards the source of noise. Percival whips his head towards him as soon as he enters, unimpressed and accusing as he holds up a wet niffler swiping at the bubbles that float wildly around them making for a rather amusing picture.

Newt can only shoot him a sheepish smile. “He’s long overdue for a bath, so please clean him thoroughly,” he hurriedly says and makes an equally hurried exit, leaving the man flabbergasted.

He doesn’t make the same mistake again after that.

Yet, Theo keeps managing to interrupt Percival’s precious bath time. How?

Because Percival asks Newt to move in together a month after—six months into their relationship—and for someone like Newt who has spent his life travelling and chasing after the next creature, it means a lot to be offered stability in the midst of a chaotic lifestyle. And he starts letting out one or two of his permanent charges to stay with his lover when he leaves on the next journey because he knows they’ll be fine.

Which means Percival doesn’t get his time alone as often as he prefers, but he doesn’t seem to mind so much after the fourth disturbance. Newt can sometimes see the man toweling dry his unusual bath companion afterwards before they fall onto the bed for a nap. He then sits next to them, working on the manuscript for his next book as he listens to quiet snores and snuffles, or joins as well for much-needed sleep after days running on so little of it.

And when he blinks awake to Theo lying peacefully atop Percival’s chest, a hand closed protectively over his little form, Newt thinks with a smile that his troublemaker may have met his match.


	18. post-Grindelwald recovering Percival thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [sssilkworms](http://sssilkworms.tumblr.com/): percival grows his hair out, after. maybe bc he realizes newt likes touching it, or he just really, desperately needs to separate himself from who Grindelwald portrayed him as. growing hair is a pretty slow process, and comes with a lot of things like learning how to get it out of ur face, tying it up, shedding everywhere etc etc
> 
> Tags: Percival-centric, angst, recovery, post-Grindelwald coping mechanisms

For all that Percival spent his entire adulthood keeping himself well-groomed and presentable, it’s much too easy to let it all go in the aftermath. He had foolishly prided himself in maintaining an appearance that not only suited him but gained the respect and attention of those around him only to realize far too late that it had been a shallow indulgence and nothing more. That one had only needed to wear his face and dress in that exact same way to become Percival Graves.

And so he doesn’t look at himself, not for the first few days when he still can’t move and they keep him clean-shaven in his stead. Percival hasn’t the heart to stop them, hasn’t the heart to say much at all to anyone—not even himself. Despite that, his mind drifts to unwelcome thoughts such as how he could have avoided this, if anyone would have noticed quicker if he had shown various facets instead of professional detachment. If he had dressed differently once in a while, allowed himself change every now and then. Because surely his consistency had played some part in the imposter’s prolonged charade.

The day he’s discharged from the wards, Percival changes out of his hospital gown and into the provided clothing rather carelessly. He rubs at his jaw—unshaven, because they can’t touch him now—then limps out with a cane after refusing all help. He walks out the doors and into the streets, and puts one foot in front of the other all the way home even though it takes him a good two hours.

Many people notice him even if it’s just a passing glance and it’s almost worth the pain in his leg increasing throughout the journey. He arrives at a barren apartment, and his eyes automatically avoid any reflective surfaces as he looks around. With no motivation or energy to do anything other than hide from the world that he wishes would see him, he drags himself into a cold but soft bed and shuts down.

He wakes hours later when it’s too dark to tell if it’s night or morning, relieves himself in the bathroom and waits. The lid of the toilet is uncomfortable and near-freezing as he sits upon it, staring into the darkness and blinking hard to clear the images from his mind. It doesn’t take long for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light and it’s comforting somehow to simply breathe and stay quiet even as his heart beats faster, anticipating that someone might come in through the door and  _put him in his place_.

At the first light, Percival stands on shaking joints and moves himself in front of the sink, in front of the mirror. He squeezes his eyes shut and keeps his head bowed, breathing now loud and rattling in his ears as each one echoes in the small place. It takes a while for him to lift his head, even longer for his eyes to open; but he snaps them wide and takes in his reflection.

A scrawny, pathetic thing looks back at him, rough with uneven hair growth on his face and head; some strands fall to his chin while a patch of it has just grown out enough to cover the scar on the left side where they had to stitch him after a surgical spell—there’s a slight dent in that area he touches. His scruff is a prickly thing against sensitive finger pads.

Percival exhales harshly, an explosion of air that’s released like a sob. Relief shakes him to the core and his legs nearly give out in response, grip tightening on the sink’s edges because he sees himself, recognizes who he is. And it’s nothing like the cold, clean look of the man who stole his identity, his tormentor who failed not once to remind him everyday that his very own face can belong so easily to another. The sight is soon blurred by tears he allows to spill only because he is alone.

He’s still here, he thinks desperately, madly, and a ragged, wounded sound tears from his throat.

_He’s still here._

 

 

It becomes somewhat of an obsession after that, to check himself in the mirror every morning. When he can’t spot a noticeable difference from the day before, his heart sinks and he feels sick to his stomach. His mind assaults him with thoughts that if he remains a certain way, then someone will be able to imitate him. Irrational and highly unreasonable, he also tells himself, yet it does nothing to reassure him as he trembles with panic and anxiety, only relieved when he turns away or breaks the glass with his fist.

Then he fixes it the next morning, but not his hands. Even wounds and scars are change, after all.

A month is what it takes to return work, a month for him to stop looking, to not freeze at the sight of his own reflection. The condition for resuming his duties is to take it easy and not participate in field missions until he’s medically cleared to do so. Not much difficulty conceding on his part, unfortunately; he had set his toothbrush on fire the other day when he tried to brush magically. The first day back gives him a twisted sort of satisfaction when given a second glance as he passes his co-workers and subordinates. He isn’t unkempt but his hair is longer than they’re used to, not held in place with pomade and instead hanging loosely around his face. He hasn’t shaved but trimmed neatly—a regression to old habits to a certain extent—and he’s dressed in a simple black suit with a white shirt, buttoned up but no tie.

He wonders absently if they might have avoided his eyes out of guilt and shame or wariness, otherwise.

Silence reigns in his department and his boots clack across the floor, an uneven rhythm due a small limp in his steps. The only ones who greet him are his secretary, a heartfelt apology on her lips and tears in her eyes, and his office. Several aborted attempts had been made by a few but none succeeded; for the better, Percival thinks, knowing he had ignored them as well, unable to face them while turmoil lingered in his chest.

The office is the same yet not, and the sight of it makes him dizzy because physically, nothing has changed. An impulsive spell shatters the inkwell on his desk against a wall, black splattering against the cream-coloured surface.

A blink, a gasp.

The haze clears from his mind as the door opens.

“Mr. Graves, are you alright—”

Ms. Kett falls quiet behind him and he knows what has caught her attention. He’s staring at it as well, the streaks of dark, viscous liquid bleeding down, dragged by gravity and pooling onto the top of his brown, leather sofa. Staining it.

“Everything is fine,” he hears himself say. “You may go.”

“But…” she hesitates.

“Please.” The word is out before he can bite it back, and it’s more of a demand than a request.

A moment, and the door closes.

Percival breathes then steps towards his desk and sits behind it as gracefully as he can like nothing happened. But for the next while, he watches the obscene pattern he created, the mess it makes on its victim below it. He watches it drip, drip, drip, until a knock pulls him out of a trance he hadn’t realized he fell into.

The President herself enters, and the only indication that she acknowledges his unusual appearance is a slight widening of her eyes. She stands straighter, nods.

“Director Graves.”

Percival locks his gaze with hers, resigned and dispassionate, almost numb; firms his jaw and prepares himself.

“Madam President.”

And he can’t help but ponder as they exchange flat, frail pleasantries if she sees him or  _him_. It’s a thought that nags him for the rest of the day, much to his shame.

 

 

The regret comes when he finally admits to himself that hair obscuring his vision and tickling at the skin of his face is more of a bother than he’d like. But he never quite manages to put it back to the way it once was, trimming it every few weeks and preferring to let it grow for another few. The others don’t know that it’s his weakness, his shame, the way he copes. They believe it’s a consequence of that incident, merely assume that he’s only relaxing more and caring less.

No, it’s that he cares too much.

He develops new habits, such as twisting the strands in his fingers and tugging while he concentrates on the document, rubbing at the prickly hairs on his chin and jaw when deep in thought, combing back the hair on his head and bunching it at his neck in times of frustration.

Some hairs break off because he accidentally pulls too hard, and they get tangled for no reason. He ends up investing in an actual brush because the comb makes it even worse. The worst part is finding the mangled mess stuck in his shower drain, never mind the occasional strand in his coffee or the ones that show up out of nowhere when he cleans his house or office.

And then one day, one of his aurors slip inside his office, quite obviously wracked with nerves for some reason. Her hands are behind her back and she bites on her lip, barely meets his eyes.

“What is it, Goldstein?” Percival tries gently, but it comes out flat.

“Sir, ah…” she clears her throat, and as if she comes to a decision, straightens her shoulders and stands taller. “I thought this might be useful for you.” She then marches up to his desk and places something on it at the edge, and nods before leaving hastily.

Percival blinks at the closed door in confusion, frowning, then looks down. It’s a thin cylindrical shape of some kind forming a loop, simple and seemingly innocuous. He picks it up and rolls it between his fingers, and it bends and distorts, twists further and further upon itself. Elastic, he realizes. But without an explanation of any kind, he doesn’t know why Goldstein thinks he is in need of an elastic band.

Ms. Kett saves him the trouble of figuring it out when he calls her in, and her eyes light up knowingly when he shows it to her. She demonstrates with miming actions how he can tie his hair back, and leaves right after with a promise to bring him more coffee.

It’s odd; thoughtful, but very odd. He never imagined that someone has been attentive in an unobtrusive way such as this, and doesn’t know how to feel about it. But he tries it, and Goldstein seems embarrassed but pleased when she notices. Furthermore, he discovers how convenient it is to be able to tie his hair like this, solves the problem of maintaining it without it bothering him.

There isn’t a profound impact as a result, not like in the stories where the smallest of gestures from another can transform the protagonist, heal their wounds and help them stand once more. Nothing as miraculous as that. It is, however, a start. Percival is still a broken man, damaged beyond a complete repair with cracks in his soul, callouses on his heart. His aurors have much to do to regain his trust, and he even more to live again.

He knows he will recover, a quiet conviction that settles in a small corner of his mind. The man in the window today looks different from the one he saw yesterday, the one he saw last week—and not just physically, but the eyes with which he sees himself.

The man today isn’t there yet.

And tomorrow, he will take another step.


	19. tied up (enemies-to-lovers, forced to work together)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thegaypumpingthroughyourveins asked: When Newt first starts working at macusa, he and Graves can't bear each other, let alone work together. The president is so tired of their immature behavior she grabs a pair a pair of handcuffs and ties the both of them together at the wrist. They are inseparable now, much to their horror. Slowly they start to live together and start to know each other and eventually they fall in love. (I hope you get the gist of this bc I feel like I haven't used the right words in some places, its 5am)
> 
> I mean like Newt’s left wrist is cuffed to Graves’ right wrist and so. Forced close proximity. Mucho bodily contact. They have to sleep in the same bed. Live together. Etc etc until the president deems they have “learned their lesson”, whatever that means, and somewhere along the way arguing turns into teasing and grumpiness into softness until they’re not sure they want to be separated. I mean sure, for practicality, but… They’ve grown used to it. Having another person close. 
> 
> Tags: enemies to friends, injured!Newt, growing attraction, handcuffs

It goes something like this:

_Newt Artemis Fido Scamander, also known as ‘Newt’, stands tall next to Goldstein. He has a pleasant enough face, Percival absently notes, seemingly guileless and open. The man smiles nervously as he fidgets with the handle of his worn, brown suitcase. There are no feelings of judgement or animosity from what Percival can garner despite what Scamander has been through at the hands of his imposter, and it relaxes him slightly._

_Appearances can be quite deceiving, he supposes—to think that he was the one to dismantle the dark wizard Grindelwald’s plan to obtain an obscurial and add to his growing forces that was to take over the world. That had already been a year and a half ago, and Newt Scamander has become a hero in his own way just like his brother, not only stopping their greatest threat but also rescuing a victim of the madman’s machinations._

_Scamander’s nervous smile changes a bit, his eyes unblinking as he gazes at Percival steadily, head tilting. It surprises him a little, having heard that this man is not very comfortable in the presence of others. An unexpectedly intense stare roams over him and it almost makes him want to fidget as well. He’s about to say something, when—_

_“How did no one notice?” Scamander says—mumbling, more like, as if thinking out loud to himself—freezing something inside Percival as his chest twists a little. “You look nothing alike,” he continues with a confused furrow to his brows._

_Percival sees Goldstein stiffen in shock, gaping as she helplessly glanced back and forth between him and Scamander, and his own brows scrunch into a frown._

_“Right, a pleasure to meet the real you, Mr. Graves,” Scamander addresses him at last as he diverts his eyes, a slight shake in his voice._

_And in response, Percival steps forward, offering a hand. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Scamander; I understand that we owe you a great deal for what you’ve done.” Tall, uncomfortably so. Percival had vaguely been aware of it when he first saw him standing next to Goldstein, but now it’s more pronounced._

_Scamander takes a while before shaking his hand, almost to the point that Percival drops it in annoyance. But then the man presses his lips together before breaking out into a smile more genuine than the first one, bashful if anything._

_It’s kind of nice._

As far as first impressions go, it had been awkward but nothing special. If he had known that was just the beginning, he would have shaken that hand, said ‘thank you’ and turned around, never to look back.

But no, he wanted to show his gratitude, had offered how he might repay in some way. Should have accepted Scamander’s heartfelt refusal, accepted it as the humbleness of his character and moved on.

And now…

“For Merlin’s sake, not everyone has vines for arms like you, Scamander,” Percival bites out, his own arm straining.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have stopped growing, then, Director,” is the snarked response.

Percival stamps down on the desire to kick him and see how he likes it being at this height. Mercy Lewis, does he have to reach up to get that? He could magic it—

“And don’t even think about it,” Scamander interrupts his thoughts. “You’ll startle the poor thing and then we’d have to find her again.”

 _No, we don’t_ , Percival thinks viciously, gritting his teeth.

For the thousandth time—he lost count sometime after fifteen—Percival wonders how being tied to one another like this is supposed to help them get along. If anything, it gives them more opportunity to get on each other’s nerves, which is every single time they’re within proximity of one another.

And they’re stuck together. All the fucking time.

Again, he also wonders how Scamander might take the suggestion that they collaborate to murder the President.

“Got you!” Scamander suddenly exclaims and Percival’s arm is lowered at last, only to be stretched outward so the man can cradle his latest rescue.

He can only be grateful for the dark of night as they finally start heading home, and he casts disillusionment and concealing for extra measure. Percival pointedly ignores what is going on right next to him, accustomed to such by now after two weeks, and lets his limb be used however.

It’s another couple hours for Scamander to settle the creature into her newest habitat and much to his shame, Percival falls asleep sitting on the ground beside him, tired from the day’s work. He doesn’t ask how they got to bed when he wakes in the morning, and it gets forgotten during their usual breakfast routine of disagreements and less-than-subtle jabs.

Today is his turn for free use of his arm, and he looks forward to boring the man to death.

An incident changes some things. Not everything, just some; but significantly.

A dangerous case has been frustrating the department and so when they finally narrow down the suspects to a single one, they waste no time chasing this man down. Of course, Scamander has no choice but to follow because Percival is leading the operation.

They’re in the midst of exchanging hexes when one ricochets off of a surface and unexpectedly changes its trajectory. Percival moves without thinking to avoid it, and realizes almost too late the man at the other end of the chain. His heart leaps into his throat in the split second he sees that Scamander has been yanked into the position of a target instead, and in a thoughtless manoeuvre tries to push him away again.

A loud, sickening snap, sharp cry of pain. The spell whizzing past between their heads and burning through the shoulder of Scamander’s coat, only grazing the top of his skin because there’s an unnatural dip in it. Percival retaliates from where he is without looking, knowing it will hit. His aurors follow up with binding spells while others check on them.

Scamander is pale and shaking, mouth pressed in a thin, white line, breathing harshly through his nose. He’s holding onto his limp arm with the other and in the light of his own wand Percival can also see the abrasion on the man’s wrist where the cuff had pulled too hard. He pushes down the guilt that threatens to cloud his senses, and asks one of his aurors to help support the man as he removes his outer layers without jostling the injury too much. He uses the shirt to immobilize Scamander’s arm before creating a shield around him so they can move him safely.

“It’s going to be alright,” he tells Scamander calmly. “Deep breaths; we’ll get you help very soon.”

Scamander looks to him gratefully which is much worse than any accusation he could have thrown Percival’s way. It’s somehow instinct to brush the man’s hair back, wipe gently the sweat beading on his forehead. Percival’s heart stutters when Scamander leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed.

Although it takes longer, they choose not to have him side-along in case it aggravates the shoulder, and within the hour, Scamander is on a bed in the med wards of MACUSA, socket being magicked carefully into place and spells healing muscle and tissue while potions mute his pain. All the while, Percival sits by him knowing that he would have even if he had the choice.

Only when Scamander’s eyes are clear enough to indicate his consciousness does Percival apologize. It just doesn’t grate on his conscience but also his pride and conviction as a protector of this city, to have tried to save himself at the expense of a civilian, to have allowed personal feelings to interfere with rational judgement. And it rankles that this is also caused by Scamander, that even while he feels guilt the man somehow annoys him.

His charge smiles in response, slurs out, “I’ve had worse, Director.”

 _Unbelievable_ , Percival thinks as he frowns. “I noticed you haven’t the greatest sense of self-preservation. That doesn’t make this better, Scamander.”

Scamander blinks once, twice. “Newt.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have some kind of aversion to my name? I’ve asked already and you ignored it,” Scamander continues, words somehow clear despite his dazed state. His mouth forms a pout at which Percival tries not to stare. “I much rather prefer ‘Newt’.”

Percival doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. He’s used to calling his subordinates by their family names, including Scamander. First names are reserved for those he considers close relationally; though in some sense, this man has been closer to him than anyone else these last few weeks. He makes a decision.

“Alright, Newt it is.”

Scamander—Newt, smiles wide suddenly as if genuinely pleased, and it has him clearing his throat awkwardly as his heart beats a little faster.

“May I call you Percival, then?” Newt keeps talking. “It would only be fair. Besides, what qualms do we have at this point when we shower together every morning—”

“That is  _enough_ ,” Percival cuts in, face warming. “Get some rest, now.”

“Yes, sir,” the man mock-salutes with his good arm, and sighs deeply as his eyes close.

They have much to discuss so that something like this doesn’t happen again but he doesn’t mention that now. Percival’s hand is warm where it lies on Newt’s chest by the other’s, held in place there by a binder while the shoulder heals. He waits until the other man falls asleep before daring to nudge at it slightly and compare those long, calloused fingers against his own.

It’s the hand of someone who is dedicated to his work and passionate—beautifully scarred and rough—and Percival has known this, seen such qualities manifested in different ways. He had simply been too stubborn to acknowledge it outright despite his admiration for Newt, reasoning that they weren’t compatible.

Truthfully, Percival isn’t ready to have someone near even after all this time, even after working to put the past behind him. Newt has already seen one too many times how vulnerable he still is, the nightmares that persist. It would have been fine if he kept it to himself, but the forceful exposure by way of their situation had left him feeling guarded and cornered; hence, his instinctive reaction to push Newt away.

Had they met under different circumstances…

Percival shakes his head, feeling foolish. All he needs to do is rationally, calmly deal with this and make sure no one else gets hurt until he can knock some sense into the President.

 

* * *

 

Percival smiles more these days.

Not that he never does, but they’re something of a rarity, Newt discovered a while ago. It’s like the man doesn’t have much to smile about, and it’s a terribly saddening thought. He doesn’t think Percival even knows this himself, because he can’t see himself all the time like Newt does.

For all that the director is keen and intuitive and brilliant, he is remarkably dense when it comes to another’s attention on him. Newt must have spent hours in the day watching him—from  _right next to him_ —observing, at first out of fascination then with growing interest. He stands by what he said in the beginning.

_How could they have not known?_

This man who is compassionate and deeply caring underneath the gruff, stern exterior, unlike the cold detachment and disinterest of Grindelwald.

Aurors, these days. Theseus would have thrown a fit if these were his men and women.

But Percival didn’t, from what Newt understands, because he feels guilt and responsibility for his own kidnapping, for being weak and putting their kind in danger as a result. Which is an utter load of crock, in Newt’s opinion. Who can possibly be responsible for that single-handedly?

“What is the matter?” Percival’s voice draws him out of his thoughts. “You better not be thinking about how to avoid writing your report.”

Newt huffs, indignant. “This is ridiculous, Percival. You’ve been reading for over an hour, now; it’s time for a break.”

“I knew it—” but Percival quiets, startled, when Newt grabs him by their joint hands and pulls him up out of his chair.

“You’d best follow me, Mr. Graves,” Newt simply states before tossing him a smile.

He tugs the man along, away from his desk and out of his office. Newt hears him protest but follow regardless, and he can imagine the rather adorable flush tinting his cheeks by now. Percival has been blushing lately as well, especially when Newt does something like this, holding hands.

Perhaps his growing interest might be mutual?


	20. when they fight (lovers spat b/w gramander)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> powerbloggerjung asked: alright a prompt. you don’t need to write this if you are not feeling it but when percy and newt had a fight, who would apologise first? and how? would they drag the cold shoulders for days? or would the resolve the issue before they go to bed? and I’m giving you good strength for you to go through the week! 💖
> 
> Tags: lovers spat, angst
> 
> There are additions to this not done by me, including a happy make-up ending! Check it out [HERE](https://fantastikobskurials.tumblr.com/post/170009256692/alright-a-prompt-you-dont-need-to-write-this-if)
> 
>  **Crack ending by me at the bottom** do not read past dotted lines if you'd rather see it!

He shouldn’t have said it, not when he hadn’t meant it.

A blink, and tears well up to blur his vision so quickly as a sob rises to the back of his throat, caught there because it’s all he can do to bite back the sorrow that threatens to tear at him. There had been something about the way Percival’s eyes went blank before closing, causing Newt’s heart to stutter, the slightest furrow of his brows as his face twisted into something unreadable. Then he had nodded and turned around, left the room. Not a single protest to his shout, only leaving a chilled silence in his wake.

Because Newt had told him to.

It’s only when he hears the front door close that an ugly sound bursts through his lips and his knees no longer support him, and Newt ends up on the floor, staring disbelievingly at the door that tauntingly stays ajar even though no one may walk back through it. It shouldn’t hurt this much, but something tells Newt that this is different somehow, that it’s not simply one of their arguments where their professional relationship sometimes overlaps into their personal one and disagreements eventually fade into awkwardness; sometimes being too awkward for either to apologize or one mumbling it first after a heat-of-the-moment tumble in bed.

And it’s nothing like their little banters that escalate into an insulting match and ends with Newt calling Percival an ‘insufferable arse’ and his lover rolls his eyes, shakes his head before asking if Newt feels better about it. To which Newt would reply negative before deflating, having forgotten the reason for their conflict in the first place—and with the pretense of reluctance would let himself be pulled into Percival’s arms and have apologies pressed onto each other’s lips.

No, nothing like the others; never before has Newt has told him to go nor has Percival walked away.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there like that on the ground, heart colder than his body. It takes immense effort to drag his mind to proper consciousness after trying to deny the reality of what happened, and even more to push himself up and step out.

The flat is empty, so very empty; devoid of another person’s presence and warmth which had never been the case even in the times Newt would be here by himself when Percival worked late or travelled out of town for meetings. It’s like when Percival walked out earlier, he had also taken his essence with him. And perhaps Newt may be getting overly sensitive, exaggerating this situation in his current state of heightened emotions, because of course Percival will come back—he always does.

But what if he doesn’t?

On unstable legs, Newt makes it to the sofa in the living room before he collapsed onto it, and it hurts to swallow down more tears as his chest feels like it’s caving in. This… This is why people aren’t—

No.

Newt shakes his head. For all that they had fought, it can never outweigh the good things he has experienced with Percival by his side. The man accepts Newt like no one else has outside of his family and gives him hope that he deserves his love. He curls in on himself—knees folding up and arms wrapping around them—and stares blankly into the unlit fireplace.

The clock ticks cruelly on the opposite wall, counting away each second, each moment that Percival doesn’t return and the sound rings in the hollow cavern of his chest.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Crack ending:**

Newt isn’t one to pace; ‘worrying means you suffer twice’ being his philosophy, after all. Yet, he finds himself doing so, surely wearing a hole through the carpet by now. As soon as he can, Percival had said, but that can mean just before the next day if the man is busy.

Will he truly come home tonight?

Weary, Newt plops down onto one of the chairs of the dining table. So much for not worrying, he thinks miserably. Why must it hurt so, to be in love with another who loves him back? But they will get through this somehow, Newt scolds himself; they must, because they have come too far to simply give this up.

 _That_  is a scenario he’d rather not think about. Ever.

Contrary to his concern, the wards allow Percival through half an hour later and it startles Newt out of his chair which clatters back loudly, causing him to wince. And too soon, not soon enough, Percival enters the kitchen and the sight of him uncoils an anxious knot in Newt’s chest. They watch each other from across the room, and Merlin, Newt wants nothing more than to gather the man up and hold him lest he disappear and shatter an illusion, but he cannot move for the very same reasoning. Percival’s face is unreadable, another thing Newt curses himself for.

But the next moment, tension slowly releases from Percival’s frame and he steps forward, opens his arms in invitation even as his expression seems to be just as weary and sad as Newt feels. Newt is between them in a heartbeat, wrapping his own arms around his lover and squeezing—painfully, he’s sure—tears of relief choking him. He doesn’t let them fall and sniffles them back, however, because this isn’t the time to be an emotional mess. He asked to be given a chance, to apologize, and Percival responded graciously, so he cannot let this opportunity go to waste.

“I’m sorry,” he starts hoarsely, pulling back to meet Percival’s eyes, then clears his throat to try again. “I never should have—”

“Newt—”

“No, Percival,” Newt says firmly, shaking the man once. “It was horrible of me to have made an observation about your wrinkles despite knowing how sensitive you are these days.”

“Newt—”

Newt shakes his head, sighing heavily. “It was completely insensitive, and rather stupid, too, since it was right before your bed time and you aren’t in the best control of your faculties when you’re in need of your beauty sleep. Shouldn’t have surprised me at all that you decided to retaliate.”

“For Merlin’s sake, Newt!” and he thinks Percival looks a tad annoyed but they really need to talk this out, not good to hold these things inside.

“No need to worry, I forgive you for insulting my freckles; I know you actually love them,” Newt continues with a reassuring smile. “How can I not when I pretended I couldn’t see you afterwards because you are not of a decent height?”

He does regret that one quite a bit – if there’s anything that cuts Percival more deeply than his age, it’s his height. And by telling him to go and grow up first before challenging him again, well, Newt rightly deserved the night spent alone.

“Damn it, Newton, if you don’t stop right this instant—”

Oh dear, Percival doesn’t look too happy in spite of Newt’s apology. Newt blinks in confusion, bites his lip.

“Did I miss something, love?” he asks worriedly, grip tightening a bit on Percival.

“Not at all, darling,” Percival replies with a smile, teeth flashing; but for some reason, it doesn’t seem very pleasant. “How about you go see to the creatures while I get dinner started?”

Newt sighs in relief. “Oh, are we good, then?”

Percival nods. “Very good.”

But later on, Newt finds dinner on his workbench and the door to his suitcase locked tight. By the time he gets out, upset and perplexed, Percival is already in bed. Newt gets ready for sleep, conscious of the eyes on him. Then when he tries to climb in—

“Apologies, I can’t have you disturb my beauty sleep,” Percival tells Newt. “Please see yourself to the couch. Good night,” and he kisses him sweetly before kicking—magically pushing—him out of the room with a blanket and his pillow.

Newt stands outside the door for a while, wondering what just happened, demanding answers to no avail.

He sleeps on the couch.


	21. [inspired by art] hot chocolate kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the sweetest coffee shop art series by sssilkworms [here](http://sssilkworms.tumblr.com/post/170028670843/coffee-shop-au-5-end-thanks-for-playing-along)!! [Here's the whole series](http://sssilkworms.tumblr.com/tagged/newt%20and%20percy%20get%20tea)
> 
> Tags: kissing, shameless fluff

Today, Percival seems a little more intense than usual in giving his attention as he speaks. Not that Newt is complaining - he’s absolutely chuffed to have all of that focus on him. He isn’t the greatest with people and would generally prefer to be out of any sort of spotlight, but it’s different with this man. After all this time, Newt has finally learned the joys being loved and what it’s like to have that someone be completely aware of him in a way that doesn’t feel shameful.

Before Newt continues his story, he takes another sip from his white chocolate mocha - a holiday favourite of his from this cafe - the richness of the drink and light fluffiness of the whipped cream going down his throat in a smooth slide and settling warmly in his stomach as the taste lingers on the tongue.

He sets down his mug, turns back to Percival. “So then–”

Newt stops, confusion filling him when the man scoots closer, placing his own cup down - a bit quickly, the coffee sloshing over the him - and removing his glasses. It belatedly occurs to him as a warm, soft hand slides around the back of his neck that Percival’s eyes are not on his; rather his gaze dips lower and remains there as he leans in before Newt can even process the action.

A shiver courses through him at the touch of hot, wet tongue along his upper lip and his eyes are frozen wide, helplessly staring at closed lids and dark lashes, then into dark eyes as Percival opens them when he draws back slightly. The man licks his own lips and the sight of it makes Newt blush terribly and dear god, he’s going to faint.

But then he’s drawn in, lips pressing against his and at his sharp intake of breath, without hesitation, Percival’s tongue slides in between them. Bitterness mixes with the sweetness of his own drink as Newt squeezes his eyes shut this time, his mind a litany of  _ohgodohgodohgod and whatifsomeonesees_  but he can’t help but kiss back, hands trembling and tightening around his cup. It’s too short and too long at the same time, both not enough and too much, soft yet firm.

A breath stutters out of him when he’s released with a final peck, his chest tight and head spinning.

“You had something on your face,” is all Percival says with a calm smile as he sits back, infuriatingly composed. If not for the slight sheen on his mouth, Newt would think that they hadn’t just engaged in an embarrassing display of lip-locking in public. “Please, continue.”

Needless to say, Newt has forgotten what he was talking about.


End file.
